Let Me Hear a Rhyme Read online

  We inch closer, too close I guess, ’cause our feet drag against the carpet, and sparks fly.

  “Shit,” he gasps, eyes widening as he takes three steps back and clears his throat. “Oh damn, um, what time is it? Yo, I have to go . . . I promised my mom that I . . . uh . . .”

  I wipe the sweat off the back of my neck. “Yeah, and I gotta go pick up Carl, but I um . . .”

  “Yeah. So I’ll holla at you later.” He grabs his book bag and rushes out the door.

  “Cool. Yeah. Later!”

  I said that mad casual because if I keep pretending like it’s no big deal, then maybe I won’t feel like my face is on fire, and that my armpits aren’t soaked, and that I definitely wasn’t imagining us kissing on the sofa.

  10

  October 3, 1997

  Steph steadied himself on the narrow windowsill, feet propped up on the radiator melting the bottom of his Timbs. Project heat is the type of heat that makes walls sweat, pipes hot enough to burn the skin off knuckles, and windows fog with condensation.

  It was tricky, balancing the hot and cold while keeping from falling out the window and cracking your head open on the pavement, eight stories down. But Jarrell’s room had one of the best views in Brevoort. From high up he could see old cats chilling on benches sharing stories, women helping each other push carts of laundry, babies playing in the courtyard, teen lovebirds kissing by the stairs. Salsa, reggae, and jazz battling between Biggie lyrics. The sounds of basketballs bouncing on the court, dice hitting the wall during a game of cee-lo, grandpas slamming down chess pieces on fold-up tables against the young hustlers taking a break from making a dollar. There was beauty and joy hidden in the struggle.

  “Jarrell! Jarrell!”

  Jarrell, squeezed to his computer desk, never took his eyes off the screen.

  “Ugh. Yes, Mummy?”

  “We need a pack of chicken! And rice. We out of rice!”

  Jarrell sucked his teeth and turned to Steph. “Yo, I swear she always sending me to the store. I don’t think she ever been up in there herself.”

  Steph snickered, digging into a plastic bag of what remained of his red and peach gummy rings. They were his favorite sweets to stock up on from the candy shop on Coney Island. With only a few pieces left, it would soon be time to officially say goodbye to summer and everything he loved—endless basketball games, open fire hydrants, barbeques, and ice-cream trucks. Everything he used to do with his dad that he made his friends and family uphold.

  Jarrell’s room was the size of a hallway closet. One bunk, one twin bed, and a tall dresser were all that could fit. He could barely squeeze in the lopsided mini desk leaned against the wall for his computer.

  “Son, you done yet?” Steph asked, impatient.

  “Slow down, kid, I’m working on it.” Jarrell hunched over his keyboard and tapped his mouse, opening up a new window. Ten more minutes left on the CD transfer. “What’s this for anyways?”

  Steph shrugged, rubbing the sugary crystals between his fingers. “Just a little something I’m working on.”

  “Aight, well, while you here, let me copy that Firm album for you. The cover is mad fly, they made it look like that movie Casino with Robert De Niro.”

  Steph hopped off the windowsill. “You got music . . . like, on your computer?”

  “Yeah. Music ain’t nothing but files you can save on the hard drive.”

  “Oh, word?”

  “Watch, the whole world is gonna start using this thing called email where it, like, sends letters over the phone wires. Like a fax machine but with no paper, all electronic.”

  “Like beepers?”

  “Exactly. Haven’t tried it yet ’cause Mummy is always on the phone, and I need a free line to hook it up.”

  Steph watched his friend, intense and focused, typing wildly, as if he’d been using computers since fresh out the womb. Knowing someone who even owned one in the hood was like an alien sighting.

  “Yo, this must’ve cost you a grip,” Steph noted, keeping his voice light.

  Jarrell swallowed, not meeting Steph’s eye. “Um . . . yeah. Got a guy who hooked me up.”

  Steph shook his head. “‘A guy,’ huh? Rell, you ain’t getting in no shit with Mack, are you?”

  “I told you, I know a guy! Damn, why you clocking me? It got nothing to do with him.”

  Jarrell sucked his teeth, refocusing, with five minutes left to burn.

  “Aight,” Steph said, shrugging, dusting the sugar off his hands. “I’m just saying, you pretty nice with this computer stuff, that’s all.”

  Jarrell’s shoulders tightened. He hated lying to his friends. Yes, he “paid” for it, but not nearly the amount it was worth when it mysteriously fell off the back of a delivery truck. Not everyone was as lucky as Steph to have had a father to steer him down the right road. Jarrell had bread crumbs to follow rather than a real map. That’s where Mack stepped in. Steph’s father may have taught Steph how to be a man, but Mack had taught Jarrell about the streets and how to survive.

  And when you’re in the thick of it, it’s hard to tell which lesson should be above the other.

  “Keep it up and you gonna blow up,” Steph added. “Probably be working for Microsoft, Wall Street, or for like the FBI or something.”

  “Nah, chill. I ain’t trying to be no pig! What I look like?”

  “Man, there’s some good cops out there . . . my pops knew some.”

  They both fall silent. Anytime Steph brings up his father, all the air sucks out the room. Talking about his legacy poked at the throbbing pain bubbling skin deep.

  “But I’m serious, though. You should, like, go to college and get your degree in computers. You’ll be making some serious bread.”

  “I don’t know nothing about that college life,” Jarrell laughed. “Plus, nobody in my family went.”

  Steph rolled his eyes. “Why you gotta be like everyone else? Just ’cause they didn’t, don’t mean you gotta do like they do.”

  “Well, my pops always say school ain’t for everyone. Somebody gotta take out the trash at night, y’knowwhatumsayin?”

  “That somebody don’t gotta be you, though. My pops used to say, ‘Dreams don’t settle, so why should you?’”

  Jarrell rubbed the back of his neck. “Man, ain’t college expensive? Like thousands of g’s?”

  “So?” Steph barked. “You get scholarships, grants, and financial aid or whatever.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s when they give you free money to go to school.”

  “Aight, what’s the catch?” Jarrell chuckled. “’Cause nothing in this world is free.”

  “The catch is . . . you work legit, stay out of trouble, and help the next kid get into college. Kinda like when you get put on and bring your homies with you.”

  Jarrell sits up straight. “Like Big did with Lil’ Cease?”

  Lil’ Cease was Biggie Smalls’s main right-hand man that he met on the block hustling. Took him on tour, and hooked him up with Junior M.A.F.I.A., with Lil’ Kim, Capone, and Nino Brown.

  “Exactly! Who knows where Cease would’ve ended up? My pops used to call it ‘reach back, pull forward.’”

  “Yo, I like that,” Jarrell laughed. “And there’s probably all the cute honies up in college too. So, you thinking about going?”

  Steph grabbed the basketball by his feet and tossed it in the air. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” Jarrell scoffed. “After you finished beating me in the head about this college shit, you don’t even know if you want to go?”

  Steph looked back out the window at the world below, full of the people he loved.

  “I don’t know. I may have a deal before then.” Steph smirked. “You never know.”

  The CD drive popped open.

  “Ohhhh . . . so that’s what’s on here,” Jarrell said, holding the CD on his pinkie. “You ain’t gonna let me hear it?”

  Steph quickly snatched it off his finger. “Nah. It’s just be
ats and bullshit anyways. But thanks, son. I’ll check you later.”

  “What’s the rush? You got a date or something?”

  He unzipped his book bag and slipped the CD into his Discman, heading for Jarrell’s bedroom door.

  “Nah . . . business. But aye yo . . . I’m serious about that college shit. Think about it. Aight?”

  Jarrell nodded. He had never seen Steph so pushy about anything except music.

  “Aight, son.”

  “Oh snap, while I’m here,” he said, jumping over to Rell’s bed and pulling out a shoebox. “Can I borrow your kicks for . . . hey, what the fuck is this?”

  Jarrell froze. “Nothing. Put that back.”

  Steph did what he was told. “This shit ain’t NOTHING!”

  “It ain’t mine,” he mumbled. “I’m just holding it for Mack.”

  “Well, Mack’s dead wrong.”

  Jarrell sniffed, squaring his shoulders. “He ain’t been wrong about nothing yet.”

  Steph had never been a fan of Mack and the way he seemed to steer Jarrell into thinking it’s his way or no way.

  “And quit going through my shit,” Jarrell laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “How you this nosey and you don’t ever let us in your room?”

  Steph knew he couldn’t talk Jarrell into giving it back, not even if he tried. “Ha, yeah, you right,” Steph laughed uneasily. “Aight, I’ll holla at you later.”

  Steph said his goodbyes to Jarrell’s mom and ran out the door, down the stairs since he hated taking elevators.

  Damn, Pops, you saw that, he thought with a smirk around the fifth floor. He had talked one of his best friends into considering college. Something his father actively did around the neighborhood. Maybe he could do the same, take up where his pops left off. Problem was not everyone in the hood was feeling his pops talking foot soldiers out of business. But what was under Jarrell’s bed just solidified that before Steph could make that move, he had a lot more work to do to keep everyone he loved safe first.

  And the key to that was on the fresh CD in his book bag.

  11

  Jarrell

  Optimus Prime swoops down and lands on my keyboard.

  “Yo, I swear to God . . . I’mma throw this shit out the window!”

  DayShawn grins from the top bunk and flips down to the bottom bunk with DaQuan, playing with their Transformer action figures.

  “Jarrell!” Mummy screams from somewhere. “Jarrell! We need sugar! And milk! And a loaf of bread. Jarrell!”

  “I’m busy, Mummy. I’ll go later!”

  “Huh? Meh can’t hear yuh!”

  “Mummy, meh said meh go lata!”

  There’s too many of us in this apartment. Mummy, Grandma, the twins, my cousin Teddy sleeping on the sofa, Uncle Clinton on the love seat, and Auntie Mita always dropping by to gossip. That’s why I spent all my time up in Steph’s spot. At least it was quiet, and I didn’t have to worry about stepping on Hot Wheels left in the middle of the floor. Can’t stand sharing a room with these two Tasmanian devils.

  “Arghhh! Yo! Would y’all be quiet already? Y’all act like you never play that game before. And pick up your toys, yo. Y’all act like we live in Toys“R”Us and y’all can leave shit wherever.”

  The twins flop on my bed, giggling, as the doorbell rings.

  “Jarrell! Jarrell! Yuh friends are here!”

  “Finally!” I asked them to stop by and see my progress.

  “Aye yo, y’all go play in the living room!”

  The twins act like they hard of hearing.

  “What up, kid?” Quady says, walking in with Jasmine trailing behind him.

  “Son, I can’t work under these conditions,” I grumble, pinching my temples. “These kids are driving me dumb crazy.”

  “What? They just kids,” Quady laughs, playfully hemming them both up. “Are y’all gonna be good?”

  “No,” the twins answer in unison.

  “Well, if y’all be good, we’ll take you to the store to get some candy. How about that?”

  The boys glance at each other with a smirk and run into the living room.

  “See, all you gotta do is bribe them.”

  Jasmine sits on the bottom bunk behind me, shaking her head. “That trick works on Carl for about five minutes.”

  “Yo, Steph better blow up,” I say. “I gotta get my own crib! I’mma have mad rules like, take your shoes off at the door and no running. Matter fact, no one under ten gonna be allowed in my spot.”

  “Chill with that, son,” Quady says, all serious. “We ain’t doing this for money.”

  I roll my eyes, waving him off.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. We doing this for ‘the love of the game’ or whatever. Save that shit for the movies.”

  “I’m serious. If we go in this trying to get rich—”

  “Then we get rich! Now quit stalling, and let me show you what I’ve been working on.”

  Quady sighs. “Aight, what you got?”

  I turn my focus to the screen as Jasmine and Quady surround me. “Here it is. After I digitized everything, I took that list Jazz made and broke it up. Party hits, volume one. Conscious hits, volume two. There’s about twelve tracks on each. Here, I burned a copy.”

  Jasmine holds the CD, grinning as Quady pats my shoulder.

  “Good look, Rell! Way to hold it down.”

  “That ain’t nothing. Check this out.” I open another program. “I took a couple of old photos, scanned them, then . . .”

  “Photos! Nah, hold up! You can’t use pics of Steph!” Quady says. “People gonna recognize him! How we gonna explain that?”

  “Would you relax? I got this! Check it out.”

  There was a photo of Steph after a basketball tournament I found in our yearbook. He was in a black hoodie, sort of turned to the side, his head tilted down.

  “See? Little shadow, some fake facial hair, and boom! A new Steph.”

  Jasmine leans in closer to the screen.

  “Damn.”

  “Anybody ask, Jazz, just say it’s your cousin or something. Now, we take this picture, put it on a background”—I open another window to show them the progress—“and boom! Got us an album cover.”

  Quady punches me in the shoulder.

  “Yoooo, son! Where’d you learn how to do all this?”

  “Summer school, last year. I’m nice with it, right?”

  “Shit. You’ve been holding out on us!”

  “I can’t believe you did this in two days,” Jasmine adds.

  I lean back in my chair, hands behind my head with a smirk.

  “What can I say? I’m the man.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Uhhhh . . . I didn’t say all that, now.”

  Quady laughs. “Aight, so now what?”

  “Well, we gotta come up with a rap name. He can’t go by anything he used before, or people are gonna know it’s him.”

  “But don’t we . . . want them to know it’s him?” Jasmine asks, like she’s offended.

  “Nah, ’cause if labels know he’s dead from jump, they ain’t gonna wanna mess with him.”

  “Rell’s right, Jazz,” Quady adds. “We gotta fake them out first, for as long as possible. Get Steph in the club and on the radio until they come begging to sign him.”

  Jasmine shrugs. “I mean . . . I guess. But maybe it’s a good thing that people might recognize him. Maybe someone will come forward with some info.”

  Quady winces. “Um. Yeah, right. But let’s keep the name different.”

  Jazz squirms, looking uneasy.

  “This is gonna work, Jazz,” he says softly. “Trust me.”

  I peep something unsaid pass between them and roll my eyes.

  “Aight, so let’s think of some names.”

  “How about Fresh to Death? Get it?”

  I rub my temple. “Yo, Quady, can you for once not be so damn corny? How about Killa—”

  “Killa nothing!” Jasmine snaps. “Steph ain’t no thug. Never even held a g
un.”

  Quady and I share a quick look. It’s like Steph was a whole other person to her. Like she didn’t know the real Steph.

  Or maybe we didn’t know.

  Quady starts pacing around the room, thinking, stepping over toys, sneakers, and socks.

  “What about Professor S?” she offers. “Ghost Writer? Ghost—”

  “Taken. Taken. And we can’t name him Ghost nothing and try to compete with Ghostface Killah. Wu-Tang Clan ain’t nothing to fuck with.” I shake my head. “Damn, who knew this would be so hard?”

  Quady suddenly stops, staring up at the wall above my bed.

  “Architect,” he mumbles.

  “Huh?” Jasmine says. “What was that?”

  Quady spins around, a goofy grin on his face.

  “The Architect!”

  I look behind him at the wall he was staring at, where Mummy hung an old wooden cross over my bed and one of Steph’s old lines come back to me.

  “Respect for the most high architect in full effect . . .”

  “Yoooo . . . kid, that’s it! Architect!” I look at Jasmine. “That is . . . if it’s aight with you?”

  Jasmine stares at the cross and smiles, nodding.

  “Yeah, Architect.”

  “Aight, bet. We got a name and a demo. All we need now is to get some copies made.”

  “Can’t you burn them on your computer?” Quady asks.

  “Not to sell to the whole hood! You trying to start a grease fire on my baby? Nah, we need one of them professional CD burners.”

  “Well, where we gonna get one of those? And with what money?”

  Jasmine grins. “I got an idea.”

  12

  Quadir

  “Yo, where we going?” Jarrell asks as we cross Malcolm X Boulevard, heading down Fulton Street.

  “Just relax,” Jasmine says with a smile.

  He groans, twisting his lips up, and we slow down, letting her walk ahead. That’s when I peep it, a little booty sticking out under her crop jean jacket. Jazzy Jazz isn’t all legs and arms no more.